


Approval

by CMDAK



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Protective James Bond, past James Bonds, protective James Bond times six
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 01:33:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7385614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMDAK/pseuds/CMDAK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't remember coming to this place or starting to play poker with these men. And yet here he is, surrounded by old men and their guns, afraid for his Quartermaster.</p><p>Based off of a photo-manipulation on the 00q FB group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Approval

**Author's Note:**

> The idea was different but, as usual, the muse did what it wanted.   
> Hope you enjoy and please forgive all mistakes.

James hated to admit it, but Q was right in saying that he a very horrible habit of managing to get into trouble even when the situation at hand was technically impossible of going bad. And yet he was forced to do so because the other five people he was playing poker with were all packing and looking eager for him to make a wrong move or get a bad hand.

 

“Do make up your mind already, Mister Bond,” the oldest of the men said in a thick Scottish accent, rearranging his chips.

 

“Do you hesitate like this during a combat situation?” Another man asked almost robotically, his question slow and wooden, as if he was an actor outside of his element who had tricked his way onto a set. Of them, this man was the one that scared James the least and he was the one he planned to use as a human shield in case the guns came into play.

 

But that didn’t mean that he felt less insulted. In fact, given how tame he looked compared to everyone else and yet he still mouthed off to him without a hint of fear in his voice, James was pretty sure that he had never felt more insulted in his life. “I face people who are actually dangerous in the field,” he growled, placing two £5,000 chips on the table. “But when I am forced to deal with a bunch of bored, old men—”

 

“He’s also underestimating his rivals,” the Welsh one said and all of them took out notebooks on which they started to scribble something, whispering amongst themselves before looking at him again, narrowing their eyes and nodding in unison – and that was beyond creepy.

 

“Perhaps I am keeping you from your book club meeting by continued this game of poker?” James teased instead, knowing that in situations like this, it would be for the best if he continued to act unbothered by their presence. “Should we leave this for another time? And maybe play it in a place where you all don’t have to squint or glue your faces to the cards to actually see what you have.” Okay, he was antagonizing them right now and he could almost hear Q hissing in his ear to stop it poking the angry men with the guns and get the hell out of there.

 

The Irish man narrowed his eyes – to glare, not because he couldn’t see him, although James thought it was a mix of both – and tapped the table, asking for everyone to show their cards. “Or at an hour that isn’t passed your bedtime, toddler?” He had two pairs; ten and nine.

 

“And maybe in a place in which the voice of that certain man could reach those floppy ears of yours without any static?” The one with the rank badges on his shoulders continued to ask, revealing three of a kind – Queens.

 

The hint at his Quartermaster got James growling, throwing his four kings on the table and jumping up, which prompted all the old men to pull out their guns and point them at his head. He too reached for his gun, instantly realizing that it was empty and thus, useless. “I grow tired of this game. What is it that you want from me? Who has you in your pockets and do they regret because of the medical bills you keep bringing in since you get a heart attack once per week?”

 

The Scotsman chuckled, eyes narrowed. “Revealing your one weakness when you are outgunned and outnumbered is one of the, if not most, stupidest thing to do. And I expected you to know that because you are supposedly the best double oh agent at MI6 right now, Mister Bond. For example, think of how horrible it would be if we were to do something to your clever—”

 

“Threatening my Quartermaster always ends in broken bones and missing teeth that aren’t mine,” James warned, his finger itching to push into the trigger even if no bullet would leave the chamber. “However, I am feeling generous today, so I am inclined to put you out of your misery if you bring that man in this ever again.”

 

The one with rank badges on his shoulders snorted, removing his finger off the trigger. “You’re also horrible at math and at planning because we are five, we all have loaded guns,” James wondered if it was an intentional slip of tongue, although the glare the Scotsman sent hinted at the fact that it wasn’t, “and we are positioned in such a way that at best you would be able to get one of us before we incapacitate you and don’t continue to insult us by thinking that we’d shoot ourselves if you duck.”

 

How did he get in this situation? No, really, how did he get here? If he concentrated hard enough, he remembered something about Q and an art museum. Could he had been about to go out on a mission? Q liked to meet with his agents in interesting places that made it nay impossible for enemy agents to get a good shot or hear what they were talking about, so… No, he was in his downtime and waited for Q to get there after his shift was over so he could put the proper moves on him.

 

He had been meaning to do that ever since he saw the young boffin in an oversized laboratory coat, hissing at the agent who dared to snap his fingers at him and asking him to bring him a coffee just because he was a new face. The way he had dealt with that deadly man not ten minutes later had James try his best to get his attention – and the grouchy Major was not happy about that.

 

But yes, back to the museum, Q had arrived incredibly late. In fact, James had pointed that out which had Q arch his eyebrow at him. “I know that you are a spy, Bond, even if I do find it really hard to believe that, especially when you introduce yourself with the name that’s supposed to be your civilian one to your enemies.” He gave out a frustrated sigh, but he was so concentrated on his annoyance with James that he didn’t really notice that the man had placed his hand on his lower back to have an easier time guiding him around the museum.

 

“Surely, I am not the only one—”

 

“True, but you are the only one who has that horrible habit of running right in the middle of danger when I tell you not to do it, you embrace obvious traps just to antagonize your would-be killers, the concept or _reloading_ your weapon is so foreign to you that you throw it after the bullets are gone,” Q continued to grumble, rubbing his temples by this point. “I am sure I had a point that didn’t have anything to do with how much of a horrible agent you are, but I have lost it much like you do with my gadgets.” 

 

“I’ll give you a point for that, Quartermaster. I will also assume that you were trying to explain to me why it took you so long to finish working and while I have your attention and silence do to your fuming, I am going to point out that despite everything you just said, I still manage to come back to you in _mostly_ one piece,” James half-joked, winking.

 

Q forced that one eye opened and pushed himself up on the tip of his toes. “Do you have something in your eye, Bond? Or is this your subtle way of telling me that you managed to lose your eye and that you have a glass one?”

 

James caught Q’s hand before his eye could be poked. “Quartermaster, has no one ever winked at you?”

 

“What do you want? What did you do?” Q asked in a deadpan voice, freeing his hand so he could start patting him down and massaging his sides, searching for a wound or his minimum of two broken ribs per mission.

 

Someone walked into James hard and caused him to bump heads with Q, almost pushing the younger man to the ground – thank God for his fast reflexes when it came to precious things he considered frail. “Are you okay? Did I break your nose? Fractured your skull? Cracked your glasses?” He was the one doing the patting now, lowering Q into a chair so he can get a better look at him. “Someone pushed me; I didn’t—”

 

“I am alright, Bond,” Q cut him off, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “A bit dizzy, but fine otherwise.”

 

“Want me to make you dizzy in a more pleasant way?” James blurted out, uncomfortable and feeling out of his element for the first time in a lot of years. But that was all Q’s fault. Q with his green eyes that always analysed everything constantly, with his wild curls that seemed to have a million beautiful shades of brown when the light reflected off of them, his quirky way of dressing that could only look good on him or on the floor of his apartment, his wonderful brain that made everyone jealous on MI6, and the way he—

 

Q’s snort derailed James’ train of poetic thoughts. “I guess my head is harder than I thought because your lines are lamer than usual, Bond.”

 

James realized that he was dizzy and that controlling what came out of his mouth was nay impossible. “I don’t mean to do that to you while we are in bed, at least not yet, but when you and I have dinner? Or lunch? How would you feel about late breakfast? Or we could go to get tea? I hate tea, but you like it and since you hate me getting hurt but still put up with it, I won’t complain if we go—”

 

Q covered him mouth, chuckling. “Bond, I never thought I’d see the day when you start to ramble and get flustered,” he teased. “We won’t have dinner,” James slouched, “or lunch,” the corner of James’ lips arched down, “nor lunch or late breakfast.” This had to be because he had become _nervous_ ; Q didn’t like people that hesitated. “As for the tea offer…” here came the definitive negative answer. “I’ll agree to join you only if we go to a place where they also serve coffee because I’d hate to see you slipping into a coma due to boredom. Maybe next Friday, if someone doesn’t decide to try and take over the world again or if you don’t decide to give me a heart attack on what’s supposed to be a normal mission?”

 

James nodded dumbly, surprised that his clumsy and beginner-like invitation was accepted, but no less happy that it did. What happened after that was fuzzy and muddled, accompanied by a phantom pain of a horrible headache and glimpses of a worried Q that kept asking him what was wrong before looking angrily in a direction from which someone else was talking and then he was suddenly staring at a green table covered in poker chips and playing cards.

 

“Did you fall asleep on us despite your previous tirade about how we’re too old to be up at this hour, rugrat?”  The accent matched the one James had heard before the world became strange, the man adapting a defensive position and better aimed his gun at his right knee.

 

“I actually think I just woke up now,” James said between gritted teeth. “I would normally be interested in finding out with what exactly you injected me but right now I want to know where my Quartermaster is. So do be so kind and tell me what you did to him before I lose what little I have left of my patience.”

 

The Scotsman hummed, tapping his chin with his gun – James taking note that the safety wasn’t on and he would have called it a stupid thing to do if the man hadn’t made it obvious that he was doing it on purpose to show that he took risks and that he trusted himself enough not to do anyone a service and put a bullet through his head. “We have done nothing to your Quartermaster, lad. Now, how about we all calm down and continue our game? The stakes are really high.” He nudged his head towards the pile of chips in the middle of the table as the others slowly lowered their guns.

 

But James refused to follow suit and clutched his tighter even if it had been emptied long before he woke up in this farce of a poker game. “There is nothing on that table that interests me so I will ask again: where is my Quartermaster?”

 

The Welsh started to laugh, tossing something over the chips. “I am sure that will change your mind.”

 

James felt his blood turn cold when he saw Q’s glasses. “You said that you didn’t know where my Quartermaster was and yet you present me with something personal of his.” He was going to beat everyone to death with his empty gun. “And that something that is very important to him and without which he’s crippled.”

 

The Welsh clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, pointing at him as he turned to look at the Scotsman – and everything was starting to sound to James’ like a horrible joke that forgot it was supposed to have a punchline. “This drewgi is dumber than we thought. He’s giving out precious information without being asked!”

 

“If I am a drewgi,” James started slowly, subtlety moving in a position that brought him closer to the foul mouthed man, “then you are a gobshite,” he finished and lunged towards him, risking his life on a whim.

 

And that paid off because they all dropped their guns even if they had a clear shot for about fifteen seconds until James managed to wrestle the old man into a human shield. Not that the shield was taking it lightly, elbowing him and trying to gnaw his arm off – and kudos to the dentist because the teeth were strong and James actually flinched the fifth time the man dug them in his flesh, blood starting to flow.

 

“Lad, stop proving that you are a complete imbecile and release my friend before he gets serious and you end up in the hospital with most of your bones broken,” the Scotsman warned.

 

James snorted, punching the old man in the ribs without a single hint of remorse. “Now who’s underestimating who?”

 

“That will still be you, wombat,” the man answered as he easily twisted out of James’ hold, kicking him in the waiting arms of his companions. “Frankly, I am surprised that you’ve survived for so long in the field. I am inclined to call this a miracle, even though I don’t believe in that.”

 

The Scotsman shoved something in his side and the world started to slow down. “Well, we all know that the miracle is his Quartermaster.” They all stepped away and let James crumble to the ground, their leader kneeling before him and patting the side of his face. “The poor, underfed, overworked, Quartermaster that he has the galls to think he’ll get to treat like the rest of his bed warmers while we still walk this Earth.”

 

The world turned dark before he could argue or demand to know why they’d be interested I what he does and with whom he does it.

 

***

 

The history of MI6 had seen countless agents that had the title of James 007 Bond on them. That so called honour that was more a curse than anything else was usually reserved for the cockiest and the deadliest of the junior agents. Many craved it, fools that they were, and they all sickly rejoiced somewhat when the previous James Bond retired via bullet to vital organ.

 

But when Major Geoffrey Boothroyd, a firearms expert and borderline crazy scientist took the reins of Q branch, becoming its illustrious Quartermaster, an era of luck washed over the cursed James Bond and all of its bearers retired alive which only made junior agents crave the title even more.   

 

“What did I say about you injecting him with that?” Q hissed, swatting the Scotsman’s arm rather brutally with one hand while struggling to pull James up with his other. “He’s getting enough of strange and possibly deadly cocktails in his bloodstream when he is in the field.”

 

“Don’t worry, junior,” the Scotsman said, ruffling his hair and easily throwing James’ unconscious form over his shoulder, “this is something that your father created—”

 

“Don’t treat him like a sack of potatoes,” interrupted Q, swatting at the man’s shoulder a few more times for good measure before carefully caressing the top of James’ head. “And don’t think that brining that man in this conversation would make me less angry. In fact, knowing that he was in on everything is making me see red in front of my eyes.”

 

There was no secret that his father _hated_ this James Bond. It didn’t start like that and the Major even found the junior agent’s antics somewhat amusing, scolding him like an old babysitter would their charge, but that all came to a horrible end when the agent noticed his son and started to act is if he was interested in him.

 

And how did that happen? “The name is Bond, James Bond.” The cocky junior agent who was the head of his class and a sure-win for that title introduced himself like that before getting it, smiling and leaning over the then lower tire Q’s work station. “And you are?”

 

“Not the reason why you are here,” the Major said coldly and dragged the self-christened James Bond away from his chuckling son.

 

From that day on, as far as the Major was concerned, this James Bond was dead to him. And when he heard that M – who was Olivia at this moment in time – had decided to appoint the newly named Quartermaster – the light of his eyes – as Bond’s personal handler because the bloody woman _felt_ that the young man could control him, he got so mad that he infected all of the appliances she owned with all sorts of viruses – he had tried to do the same when Mallory decided to allow Q to remain in his handler position, but his son had surpassed him when it came to technology so nothing happened.

 

“I assure you that nothing bad is going to happen to this James,” the one who was 007 for the least amount of time do to his new wife almost getting killed by one of his enemies – and, go a much lesser extent, his stiff accent that made it hard for him to go unnoticed – said and made to pat Q, only to have his hand slapped.

 

“Just wait until your wife hears about this, Uncle George,” Q warned and kicked the main door open, pointing to the helicopter he had 009 hijack from MI6 on his behalf. “A bunch of grown men, kidnapping another grown man—”

 

“He didn’t act like one,” came a grumble from the crowed of regretful-looking former double oh agents.

 

And Q stopped right in his tracks, causing everyone to bump into each other. “Ignoring your moot point because neither of you did either, would you mind telling me what your exact plan was? Do you really think I wouldn’t be suspicious that you five showed up just as Bond passed out on me after stumbling through asking someone out as if he was a teenager? When he’s the king of honeypot missions and the lamest line that I have heard from him so far landed him in the bed of a certain Miss This One City? And Uncle Sean, don’t you dare _accidentally_ dropping James on his head to check if he has a brain.”

 

Sean practically threw the passed out James in 009 and grabbed Q before he could run to his side and check to make sure that everything was okay. “That’s exactly our problem with him, Q,” he said softly, sighing. “We didn’t mean him any harm and we didn’t think he’d react so violently to the sight of your glasses. Timothy took them without my knowledge,” he added quickly when he felt Q starting to struggle. “Junior, we only want the best for you and James Bond is anything but that. Just ask our wives after they have to put up with a fifth paternity test or after they have to by another armoire because we had a bad dream.”

 

Q knew they had only the best of intention; however that was with what the road to hell was paved. “You _always_ do this,” he mumbled, sighing. They saw themselves as his other fathers, even if none of them felt for his biological one nothing but friendship and loyalty.

 

According to his mother, Q had decided to come into the world one week earlier. His father got the call when Timothy was helping him test his latest creation and of course the man ran out of there screaming for a car and that he had to go to the hospital. Timothy, in turn, thought that something bad had happened and called his predecessors – with who he was friends with – and all rushed after the almost hysterical major.

 

The deadly trio calmed down only when a nurse explained what exactly was happening and they took to pacing around the hallway while his father almost chewed his fingers off. Two hours later, when Q finally came into the world, the four of them struggled to get through the door to see him – and then they all panicked when his mother suggested that they try to hold him.

 

When Q had his first fever at the age of two, his mother had to deal with five nervous wrecks – Roger had taken Timothy’s place as James Bond and it didn’t take long for him to become part of the strange family – and one crying baby. And the crying baby was the easy part because as soon as he was given the proper treatment, he settled down and fell asleep while the men continued to fuss about him, wanting to call a doctor at the tiniest sound the baby made, afraid that he had gotten sick again.

 

He remembered all the times they carried him on their backs, how they tended to wrap him up like a mummy when he got so much as a scratch, how they all came with two cameras each whenever there was a play he was in – even if in one he was nothing more than a talking tree that had two lines – or science fairs – which Q always easily won without help from his father, mind you – and the many nights before his exams when they all did their best to help him pass.

 

The less fun memories always involved Q’s romantic life. They always scared the people that showed an interest in him in a sexual matter, either by kidnapping them – boyfriends one, three, six, and eight – bribing them – girlfriend one and three and boyfriends five and four – or by tempting them with either junior agents or acquaintances that were close to their age – girlfriend two and four who also happened to be the last woman he attempted to form relationships like that with women and boyfriend two and seven.

 

“I like this James a lot,” Q mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. “And you all married despite the amount of people you slept with and you very much love your wives who do the same despite your bad habits and deep, psychological scars,” he pointed out.

 

“Did you say marriage?” Sean gasped, clutching his chest. “You’re too young!”

 

“He’s too old,” Pierce pointed out, frowning.

 

“You don’t even know him that well,” Roger added, throwing his arm over Q’s shoulders in a horrible attempt to get him away from the helicopter. “What is his real name? What if he’s already married? He sure sleeps around like someone who’s seeking happiness outside of their lifeless marriage that might have been forced on them by circumstances such as a drunken night of passion and a complete lack of condoms. And, even more importantly, what if he’s a double agent who plans on kidnapping you and trying to use you?”

 

Q sighed and pushed Roger away. “Firstly, you all really need to do your best to tone down your paranoia and secondly, he’s not _that_ much older than me.” He raised his hands when all the man started to argue with him over that, eventually whistling to get them to shut up. “I am not thinking of marrying him! Just going out with him on one _bloody_ date which I will, no matter what you do. Oh, and what were you planning on doing exactly?”

 

They glanced at each other before pushing Sean forward. “Well, we know he likes gambling so we figured we could get to know him better over…” He trailed off when he saw the way Q was glaring at him, hands rested on his hips, lightly tapping his foot as if the ground was a drum and he was announcing an oncoming war – a war they all wished to avoid. “We were planning on letting him win and then suggest we— Junior, you know we love you, right?”

 

“Get on with it,” he growled. “After inducing a false sense of security, what were you planning on tricking him out of?”

 

“That date with you,” Sean said quietly, head lowered.

                                                    

Q hoped on the helicopter and slammed the door shut before any of them could come on board, signalling 009 to take off. This wasn’t the end of this conversation, but he was too worried about James to try and continue it and he was sure that things would go much smoother once he got his mother in on their crazy antics – which they had all promised never to do again since boyfriend nine had ran out screaming and naked out of Q’s apartment.

 

***

 

This wasn’t the first time James woke up in a strange room, feeling confused, and missing a good chunk of his recent memories. In fact, he got the distinctive feeling that this happened quite recently, reason why he braced himself or a madman or madwoman to walk through the door any minute, carrying a tray of torture utensils.

 

“You’re at MI6,” Q’s soft voice drifted across the room, his slightly annoyed face finally coming into focus.

 

“What did I do this time?” James wheezed out, thankfully accepting the glass of cold water that his Quartermaster held out to him. “You got a new pair of…” He trailed off as memories washed over him and he clutched the glass, almost breaking it. “They kidnapped you,” he growled and sat up abruptly, groaning in pain. “Where are we?”

 

His seemingly safe and sound Quartermaster tutted and carefully pushed him back down, tucking him back in. “Again, we’re at MI6, but this is the Medical wing, so you wouldn’t recognize it. And let me point out that _you_ were the one who got kidnapped while I was distracted in a most embarrassing way by a passed out you in my arms and my glasses got nicked by five old men who mean no harm and who are also your predecessors as James Bond.”

 

Q wasn’t making any sense and James wasn’t quick to blame whatever had been shot in his system because he rarely, truly understood him when he wasn’t wagging his finger in his face while speaking fast in a slightly anger whisper. “I am James Bond,” he said after what had to be a long while because Q appeared to be startled out of his chart and phone checking.

 

“Yes, darling, you are _now_.” He was making even less than before, so it had to be the drugs. “But before you were Bond, they were Bond. And while in my own personal opinion they were all a tiny bit worse than you, you just rubbed my father—”

 

“What does your father have to do with any of this?” James asked confusedly. “And why would I rub your father? No offence, but I am not into old men even if they might hold the immortality gene that he most surely passed on to you.”

 

Q snorted, gently patting James’ head. “I was warned that the dosage Uncle Sean injected you with the second time was more concentrated, so you’ll be a bit sluggish both in movement and in thinking for the entire day.”

 

A thought crossed James’ mind then and he grabbed the sides of Q’s face. Q sat as still as possible as he could, although when the agent started to tug with a deep frown on his face, he flinched and let out a distressed noise. And that was all it took for hell to break lose one more time.

 

Before he knew what was happening, James was struggling to kick the Scotsman off of himself and reach Q – who was indeed the real Q and not someone in a very good Q mask, like he had feared – who was being flanked by the other four men.

 

The Scotsman was the one who was underestimating now, assuming James to be weaker than he really was and easily getting bested and thrown into the floor. One enemy down, James then threw himself over Stiff Lines and Welsh Grandpa while Irish Mummy and Ranks jumped back with Q secured between them.

 

“Drewgi, if you don’t calm down, I’ll go against Q’s wishes and actually hurt you,” Welsh Grandpa warned, but James still continued to struggle and try to claw and kick his way to his sighing Quartermaster, relenting only when he saw him easily shrug off the hold on him.

 

“Bond, I know they don’t show it, but they are not our enemies,” Q said slowly and loudly, as if he were speaking with an unruly child who was in the middle of a hissing fit. “They are former the former James Bonds who see themselves as a more deadly extension of my father and do their best to protect me,” he continued to explain, gently guiding James back to his bed.

 

“But I am James Bond,” he insisted, trying to keep Q within a zone where he could easily act because he was making no sense. What did he mean by the former James Bonds? Last time he checked, he was the only child that his mother and father hand and no one else in his family had received such a ‘pedestrian name’ – in his rigid grandmother’s own words. He was also the first person to receive the name of ‘James’ on his mother’s side and even if he wasn’t, there wouldn’t have been anyone else named ‘James Bond’ because his mother’s maiden name was ‘Delacroix’.

 

“I don’t think your lad knows what you’re talking about, Junior,” the Scotsman said, dusting his jacket off and cracking his knuckles and neck. “Tell me, lad, what’s your name? Your _real_ name, that is, not the one MI6 gave you.” James pursed his lips and clutched Q’s hand tighter, looking around the room in an attempt to come up with a plan to ditch the crazy old men who might have also injected Q with something.

 

“I honestly think it’s—”

 

Q slapped the Welsh’s arm. “Uncle Timothy, stop antagonizing the active double oh agent,” he snapped at him before focusing on James, eyes full of kindness and worry. “Bond, you don’t have reveal your real name if you don’t want to.”

 

Why it was so hard for Q to understand what he was saying when he had no problem deciphering the language of zeroes and ones was beyond James. “Q, my name really _is_ James Bond. Didn’t you read my personal file?”

 

It took Q a moment to shake his head – but all of his apparent grandpas were on their phones, trying to hack the MI6 servers if the way Q’s phone went off was anything to go by. “That is the only private thing you as a double oh agent have left, so I did not dare to look at it.” He pulled out his phone and typed something, the group of overprotective former agents groaning and dropping their phones to send Q glares that were all promptly ignored. “I knew your— Wait a minute.” He didn’t like the way Q was glaring at him. “You’ve been sharing your real name with your enemies and targets?”

 

“I changed my mind about my real name,” he breathed out, but it was too late. Q was already stuck in an angry rant, waving his hands around as if he was conducting and orchestra. He was trying not to pant by the time he was done, glasses askew, _almost_ sweaty. “All of that being ranted,” James risked, mind a bit clearer now, “are we still on for next Friday if it isn’t already that day?”

 

“Of bloody course, you insufferable git,” Q snapped, taking a deep breath and holding his hand up. “All of you, stop talking before you even start,” he warned. “In fact, you best all get out of here now; mother has invited you all to dinner.” There was an evil glint in his eyes when he said that, the seriousness of his words mirrored by the fact that everyone looked a shade whiter than before. “And you will cease using your real name when introducing yourself like the misguided gentleman you aren’t to your enemies!”

 

That was never going to happen because he was the one and only James Bond, even if MI6’s past was full of them.

 

“Bond, you’re talking out loud,” Q sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Bloody immature Bonds.”

**Author's Note:**

> Each "James Bond' got his real name from the actor that played him. I have nothing against Lazenby and I did enjoy the only movie he was in, but he is mostly described as wooden or stiff in his line delivery.
> 
> Sean Connery - Scottish  
> George Lazenby - wooden questions  
> Timothy Dalton - Welsh  
> Roger Moore - rank badges on shoulder  
> Pierce Brosnan - Irish
> 
> Drewgi - welsh - Smelly dog - You would direct this insult towards someone you don't find particularly agreeable
> 
> Gobshite - Irish - This is usually reserved for an idiot of the highest order.
> 
> Wombat - Australian - A reference to the native, short-legged marsupial, wombat often refers to an overweight, lazy, or slow idiot


End file.
